Painted Lady
by Dr.GOD
Summary: The night of the knights return to Hadrain's wall, before the battle of Badon Hill, Tristan fianly slew his painted lady. Tristan/oc slightly smutty, slight drabble. One Shot-fic inspired by a youtube vid.


They were a tangle of limbs in the darkness, of sweat slicked skin, blood seeping from her, soaking into him, his odour filling her senses: wood smoke, wet grass, tallow fat.

He remembered her face by touch, every curve of it traced; the line of her jaw, the bow of her lips, the curve of her cheeks, and soft caress of her lashes, heavy with tears. Recalled their first meeting when she had sat, poised like some great blue cat in the trees, the painted lady.

She could have hardly been more than a girl, those many years ago when he had been barely a man himself. And yet some spark alight in her eyes sang of her fears, despite the dark blue grease that coated her lithe and hairless body, allowing her to seem part of the tree for a mere moment.  
Within her the song of a warrior chimed, as deathly and hollow sounding as her foreign tongue, the same song as his own.

He had stayed his bow that day, being but a boy in mind still. She'd taken captive his senses and he could not bear to spill her sweet blood. He had waited many long had years for that blood. Now, in the light of next dawn, he would leave her eternally, for his home beyond the mountains, for life itself.

Tonight, she was life, and her sweet blood coated him as they struggled wordlessly together, gasping and moaning, one being from two. She bit hard on his shoulder, sharp little teeth sinking into his soft flesh, blood trickling into her mouth. He gasped in pain before burying his face in her neck, his blood for her own, was that not their silent agreement?

He remembered the first day he'd seen her on the battlefield, still small and hairless, she wore none of the leather of her kin. She'd grown her hair out on her head now, and thick black locks flew around her as she scampered between hooves, hamstringing Roman's horses with an inhuman glee. That time he'd not had any heart or energy left then to think of staying his blade against the demon men who plagued their very existence.  
The five years of training at the wall had hardened his heart.

Her face had paled as Gawain's axe flew down upon her companion, killing the waspish blue boy. She had run then, run from Gawain, and run from the battle. Ten horses left in her wake, their masters speared by the leather-clad blue beasties.

He faltered then, pushed his own steed faster beneath him, the dappled gelding;'s hooves smashing holes in the sodden earth. He'd long since passed her, and turned, dropping form the saddle in one fluid and catlike motion. He was within the boundaries of the woods now, and sunk low on his haunches.

She'd burst through the undergrowth in a flurry of wails and tears and blood not her own.

He rose in that instant and caught her around the waist with one strong arm. His eyes spoke of the same fears they had when he'd first seen her. Her small slimy form struggled against his grip, but he held her firmly, pulling her back against his armoured chest.

In her ear he whispered lullabies from his faraway home. She was still with fear, petrified, not knowing what he was saying. Her only thoughts for the faces of her brothers on the ground where they lay, lifeless and drained, eyes peeled open in terror.

Turning her around in his arms then, Tristan had seen that same terror laid bare in her near-black eyes. On her lips, he placed the edge of his long knife blade, letting it slip over the skin, drawing blood.

She gave a terrifying, angry, crimson wail. He kissed her, and she bit him through the blood. In shock, his grip loosened and she ran. His own blood welled forth from his bottom lip. The imprint of her teeth had never really faded.  
Now, he pushed her down, tracing the hollow of her shoulder with his mouth, sighing warmly on her greasy blue skin.

Was she really blue, even under the paint? He wondered, never having seen her without it. It wore away under his touch now, rubbing bare over her pallid skin, slick with sweat, where he touched her. Her paint soaked into him as her blood did, and she gave muted cries of pain and delight, her back arched forward, her hips bucked poetically into him, as the melded further.

Then together they collapsed, straining against one another for an instant before falling in a tangled heap of hair and sweat and blood. All was darkness, before the last dawn.


End file.
